waiting for bus

Nought. That quantifier. Nought. That valiant quality. Nought. Or is it nowt. Out with the tendrils. They're sexually frustrated tendrils. No one will be ripped in. No one. "Your old friends are getting older , and your new ones dont know at all" king loser lyric. Poignant in this our socially mediated age. Dare I criticize the commies? Dare I criticize the fascists? What do we leave behind us. Just guff. Just excreta, fairest brown biologic mank. I wait for the bus and hope that some vision of perfection trundles by. One just did. Pity about the light.  Pity about my filthy cascades of scalp skinner. I'm losing my touch and it's called aging and it's too bad. Not that I got anything or any anything when I was on form so really, big deal. Makes no difference. Cake away. Choke don't. Spit it out the mank and the filth

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